You Take My Breath Away
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Prequel to 'The Road to Hell'. An incident from Malcolm's past as a Section 31 operative wherein the seeds of future tragedy are sown... Rated for violence. If this type of material offends you, please do not read it.


**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

This story has not been beta-read, so any mistakes in it are mine.

 **Warning: This story contains graphic violence. If this offends you, please do not read it.**

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It's just another op, and just another dirty trick; a seedy club in a seedy end of town, where the lights are low in the public areas and bright on the podiums where various scantily-clothed bodies gyrate – some female, a few male, and one or two that might be either or neither or both.

Presumably this is designed to stimulate the appetites of the patrons, but most of the world-weary eyes in here have seen it all before. The dancers are for hire, like pretty well everything else in the place, and now and then one will be summoned with the crook of a finger; sometimes for a closer inspection, and sometimes to follow obediently upstairs to a room for a private performance of unspecified duration and type.

All newcomers are studied closely, if covertly. There is always risk here, and strangers increase it. Until it is apparent that they have peaceable intentions, they will be the subject of wary curiosity. Quite probably the bar staff are never more than a pace away from a loaded weapon, because trouble is bad for trade and there will never be a shortage of witnesses to attest that 'the stranger started it'; not that the law enforcement agency (such as it is) will be overly interested, as long as the body is tidied away and no especially awkward questions are asked. And the type of clientele who patronise this particular club in this particular street in this particular area on this particular planet are seldom inclined to ask questions, and certainly not awkward ones, so by and large it is a peaceful hostelry, if somewhat lacking in charm.

So there is the flicker of eyes towards the party who come in, and attention lingers longer than it usually does. Strength is by no means unusual here, but build on this scale is a rarity. The heavy-lidded flat stare sums up the room and warns it to keep its distance, while muscles shift like moving hills under the bronze-coloured shirt as he turns to usher in his far smaller companion.

She's petite and beautiful and platinum blonde, and walks with conscious arrogance on her high heels. The sway of her hips under the skin-tight red fabric is as sinuous as that of any of the occupants of the podiums, but anyone who crooked a finger in her direction would very shortly be relieved of it, possibly with a few additional digits and maybe a tooth or two. So those who stare do so discreetly, and fingers remain uncrooked and still attached.

The advent of Beauty and the Beast is so arresting that attention does not immediately alight on the two pets that Beauty has on the leash. Literally, for they are collared and submissive: one tall and fair, one dark and slight. They follow behind her with lowered heads, meek and silent, and if they look around at all it is from beneath carefully lowered lashes. As she finally selects an alcove and settles haughtily in it, they settle beside her, but not on the seating; oh no, they know their place. The floor is good enough for them, and they crouch humbly there, not daring to raise their eyes as they wait for orders that she may or may not give, though that is no business of theirs.

Gender equality is not a concept embraced on all worlds. On this one, if it is heard of at all, it certainly is not widespread. In the main, it is men who hold the power and women who know their place, and therefore the sight of two men as subservient as dogs to a mere woman (however beautiful and elegant) causes a slight stir of curiosity and disquiet. Of course, there is a firmly established hierarchy in operation here, and those who hold power in it keep those beneath them quite as obedient as any dog, but the bonds of control are seldom as visible and demeaning as a strip of supple leather. After all, however subservient an underling may be, most have some illusion of their own dignity before the world, and it is either a reckless or a very confident master who will strip them of that illusion for no appreciable gain.

She requires refreshment. Another hireling, small and scuttling and insignificant, gives the bar staff orders – and very specific orders they seem to be, if his earnest gestures are any indication. After which he retires into even greater insignificance, crouching anxiously on the edge of a nearby chair to watch that everything is prepared to his Mistress's complete liking.

Beauty appears bored. She ignores the massive presence of her bodyguard as completely as if he were a carved ebony statue, and he appears to accept this as entirely normal. He stands beside the alcove, his arms folded, and thinks his own thoughts. Few of these are pleasant, if his dark visage is any guide.

She accepts the drink, brought with too much obsequiousness by her small servant. No-one else is offered a drink, or indeed appears to expect one.

Even the bar staff seem awed enough to hold just a little breath as she takes her first sip. The liquid gleams on her glossy lips as she takes a first critical sip; the servant seems almost about to take flight, the suspense is so great; will it be deemed acceptable?

It seems so. A faint frown furrows the porcelain brow, but it is of fleeting duration. She takes a larger sip, and sets down the glass instead of throwing it.

The occupants of the bar area relax. The servant sidles into the shadows, doubtless to tremble there until summoned for some other duty.

If she has come with the expectation of meeting someone, it is not apparent. She consults no chronometer, simply stares into space with an expression of elegant boredom. But it seems she dislikes this lack of entertainment, for presently she tosses aside the leashes and snaps out a word of command.

Fair and dark, they dare not disobey. They rise from their crouch, and each with the badge of his servitude dangling free they stand up and unbutton the identical dark blue shirts that they wear. She watches idly as the fabric slips free and bares them to the waist. Toned bodies gleam in the low light. They are beautiful.

 _Humans_ , the servant whispers to a curious passer-by, who has just paused to watch. _A mated pair. Very rare, in this corner of the quadrant. Cost Mistress a fortune._

There is a quality in their slow movements that speaks of tenderness as well as lust; blue eyes and grey hold and speak in silence, so that if one were not long past such delicacy there might even be the temptation to turn one's gaze away from a ritual that seems intended to be so intensely private. But there are no such niceties here. Their mistress sits back while their mating display solaces her boredom and entrances the room, raising the curiosity of more than one as to what more might unfold in the confines of the bedroom. Doubtless they dance for her there, naked and desiring, and she watches the whole alien mystery to its close.

There are those, it seems, who would like to do more than wonder. From a particularly dark corner, two of the club's more regular patrons emerge without haste. To approach directly would imply unseemly interest; besides, while they stroll nearer they can watch the undulating semi-naked bodies, hands sliding on skin and breathing mouths brushing one another.

Beauty seems displeased by their irruption. The Beast glares. The dancers ignore the world, their whole concentration only for one another.

Nevertheless, business is business. Here, as a rule, no offer will be declined if the price is high enough.

A room upstairs? Not large enough. Such a spectacle should be viewed in a setting that deserves it. Such stamina – such _lust_...

And, of course, obedient. The leashes are not there for decoration.

Skin, already gleaming with sweat. Dark-lashed eyes, wide and seductive. Their lips are slightly parted, swollen with passion.

Alien.

=/\=

The promised opulent bedroom has not materialised. Instead there's a laboratory, which among other things contains an airtight Plexiglas box.

One of the prospective renters is outside the box and the other is inside it. The one outside it is in a chair, with ropes keeping him there. The one inside must be rather uncomfortable, because there's not nearly enough space for him to stand up, but he is not otherwise constrained.

Information will buy him freedom. Only one of them has what is required, but is unwilling to divulge this. They both believe that their captors are bluffing.

This is not wise. Nor is it true.

The box is rather small. It was not designed to hold a humanoid, certainly not one of this size. Also, being mostly full of prisoner, it is correspondingly less full of air. Some of which he has already wasted on words that may as well hit the inside of the box and rebound at him for all the effect they have on the people who have put him in there. His companion hears them, but only faintly, and they have little effect on him either. After all, this is all just being done to frighten them; nobody would _really_ dare to hurt a representative of The Conglomerate.

It appears that conditions inside the box are already becoming slightly unpleasant. The man seems to be getting rather warm. The chromatophores down the sides of his nose and jaw are already flashing blue with anger, but there's a greenish tint to it now: the colour of fear.

"You wouldn't dare," says the occupant of the chair. This isn't the first time he's said it, and even to his ears the repetition is growing tedious.

He's looking at the smaller of the two dancers, who he thinks is the weakest.

The little dark Human slinks forward. His upper half is still naked and beautiful, but events had not proceeded far or fast enough for any more of his clothing to be removed, though that had certainly been on the agenda. His gaze is as pitiless as that of a wild animal as he drops fluidly to his knees opposite the face behind the Plexiglas, and watches.

Struggling uses up even more oxygen, but the point comes quite quickly when adrenaline overcomes reason. The cells are flashing green now, wild with terror, and the man fights with all the insane strength of utter desperation to break the walls or split the seals. The more he struggles, the harder he gasps, and he starts clawing with his fingernails at the corners and the joins to find or make a crack, _any_ crack, however tiny, through which precious air can come. His movements are convulsive, as though electric shocks are battering through his body, but the lack of oxygen is now becoming acute. His lips are turning blue. His ribs heave, sucking in air of which every breath is less use to him. His eyes are popping, and the microphone picks up the faint, desperate plea, " _Tell them... tell them...!"_

The man in the chair still thinks they're bluffing. He mentions this fact again, with some emphasis, as well as the identities of various people who will be less than pleased if either he or his companion are harmed. His language throughout exceeds even the capacity of the automatic translator, with which his interrogators were thoughtfully supplied before coming here.

The fact that they are neither bluffing nor suitably impressed by the list of people whose displeasure they risk is slowly becoming apparent. The man in the box is having seizures, and loses control of his bladder and bowel. His extremities are blue, and turning dark. His eyes suddenly roll back in his head; he's unconscious, but his body still tries to live. His ribs heave for a little longer, and then suddenly with a couple of frenzied movements that bend him like a bow, it's over. His face is pressed up against the glass, its tongue protruding in a mess of bloody foam; his eyes are still half-open, their pupils huge and black. The distended artery in his neck pulses for a few more moments, and then stops.

Information may yet save the second man from his fate. He still doesn't understand that his choices have now narrowed down to two: talk or die. He continues to curse and threaten as the box is opened and the contents lifted out and flung down in front of him like a salmon on a fishmonger's slab. It really isn't a pretty sight.

It's fortunate in the next few minutes that the walls are soundproofed. Screaming, he tries desperately to free himself from the hands that grasp him, but he's one against five. The mouth of the now malodorous box yawns to receive him, kick as he may (and does), and the feeling of his heels battering against the inside of it as he's forced downwards sets him thrashing so madly that even five of them struggle to hold him.

He feels the base of it under his feet, and braces his legs frantically. Someone kicks his knees viciously and he collapses; he's being folded up in exactly the same way that the previous occupant of this perfect death-trap was, and the knowledge that his soon-to-be-executioners regard his many sins as a perfectly good reason to rid the world of him whether he talks or not almost robs him of his sanity. He knows now that they'll murder him in cold blood without a qualm, but terror of the consequences of talking still locks his tongue.

The two Humans brace their hands on his shoulders, one on either side. The blond's face is coldly impassive, the dark one wears a smile that is utterly appalling. Both of their throats are bare now; the leashes are tied around his wrists and ankles, and cutting off the blood supply.

His knees hit the base of the box. It's slippery.

They bend him forward, as though he's praying. He may indeed be praying, in some inner corner of his subconscious, but no miracles happen here, and no angel will lean down and intervene on his behalf. The pressure of the box lid comes onto the small of his back and the weight on it tells him the Beast is there.

Beauty watches from in front of him. Her cool loveliness is unmoved; the cold light runs down the pale silk of her hair. "Tell us what we want to know."

"That way you get _some_ chance," advises the servant, an urchin who stands beside her now like an equal.

Curses and saliva fall in strings from his mouth as he is borne inexorably forward. There is no need of hands on his shoulders now; the weight on his spine is like that of a small moon. He is completely unable to resist it.

The lid clicks into place. He hears the seals engage.

The pain of his bent-back arms is almost irrelevant. His own screams deafen him as he throws himself from side to side, vainly trying to tip over the box. Common sense knows that if he succeeded it would accomplish nothing, but he tries anyway, because it's impossible to do nothing at all in the face of his impending demise.

Can the air be getting harder to breathe already? He doesn't know, can't remember. It's foul, but surely there's less oxygen than there was; surely it didn't take this much effort to draw breath sixty seconds ago?

The five faces outside watch him indifferently. If he doesn't value his life enough there will be other sources. The Conglomerate have been expanding exponentially, and warnings have been sounded about taking things a little more carefully. Evidently, those warnings weren't heard or heeded, or not fast enough at any rate. Starfleet is holier-than-thou, but under those snow-white robes there are shadows where dead men lie. He will shortly be one of them.

Terror curdles his stomach. He vomits.

There is _death now_ or _death later. Death later_ may just possibly be evaded, but _death now_ is immediate and inescapable, unless he co-operates.

"Yes!" he shrieks. _"Let me out!"_

The little dark demon crouches and looks in at him carefully, while more heaving breaths use up still more oxygen and the pain of his trapped shoulders feels as though his arms are being ripped from their sockets. A career working for The Conglomerate has ensured he's encountered more than his fair share of highly unpleasant individuals, but still it's hard to escape the absurd impression that the dark, painted eyes that watch him are those of a being without a soul. If the immediate terror of death weren't occupying his mind to the exclusion of practically everything else, he'd search his memory for some childish incantation to ward off evil.

A nod. The seals hiss open and air (blessed, blessed air!) floods into the box. Simultaneously the lid snaps free and he bursts upward, gasping with relief.

Straight into the grip of the Beast. Who bends him over backwards and suggests that _now_ would be a good time to start talking, before the backward pressure becomes even more unbearable than it already is, and something breaks.

He talks. Names, places, dates, some he's sure of and some that are fragments of conjecture with now and again a little helpful fiction thrown in; anything and everything that will save him. Shipments and contacts, freight haulers and dealers, buyers and sellers, all grist to the mill. Finally he runs out of sales goods, and stumbles to a halt.

Above him the ebony face is impassive. The chromatophores on his skin are as dark as the skin itself, revealing nothing.

The sudden shove down is so unexpected he hardly feels the burst of astonishing pain as his spine shatters, killing him instantly.

=/\=

Pard is incredible in bed. It's not the first time Jag has had her, but it's the first time he feels that he's truly her equal. Equally driven, equally damned, they slam and caterwaul and claw till they draw blood.

Afterwards, they sleep the sleep of the soulless. He has no idea that that night the shadow of the future laid its finger across him; many years will have to pass before the hiss of escaping air fills his ears, and the past comes back to haunt him.

 **The End...**

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